


better not look him too closely in the eye

by orphan_account



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it had been any other guy, any other CEO or celebrity or big shot/big name/big wig, he'd be patting the kid on the back and encouraging him to sweep the man off his feet and charm his pants off if he has to (but charm them in as classy a way as possible and only if he wants to) but this isn't just some rich guy who likes the booze or women or both a little too much, this is William Stokes. William Stokes who rarely leaves his apartment, who only calls when he thinks he might have run into a problem but never calls back because somehow he's managed to fix it, who can afford to keep someone like Harvey on retainer, who speaks like butter could melt in his mouth, moves like he's silk in water, who, with one look, conveyed every single intention he has for Mike and who shook the unshakable Harvey Specter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	better not look him too closely in the eye

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of feel like I need to apologize for this fic. I see the words "serial killer" in a prompt and I pounce on it like a cat onto a vulnerable mouse. I can't help myself. when I saw [this prompt](http://suitsmeme.livejournal.com/1110.html?thread=321366#t321366), I _knew_ I had to write it. so where does the apology come in? well… I kind of picked up this prompt and ran and ran and ran with it until I couldn't run anymore and then I collapsed and wrote what the prompter asked for (hopefully) except a lot more disturbing than I had planned. not only that but it's also incredibly long for a fic that could probably have been put together neatly in 3,000 words or less. but no. I don't know how to shut up (example: this author's note) and, because of that, I tend to write fics that are about 4,000+ words longer than they need to be (one time, in a different kink meme, someone asked for a zombie apocalypse au and I wrote them 18,000 words. so… yeah. just be happy that anon didn't ask for zombies because you'd probably have a novel on your hands right now). I also want to apologize for how creepy (and… did I mention disturbing? because. yes. disturbing) this fic is. or, I don't know. personally, it doesn't bother me too much but it could bother someone else. especially the finger thing. and also how it ends.
> 
> so.
> 
> sorry about that.

"Who's William Stokes?"

Harvey looks up from his desk, lifting his chin from where it rested on his fingers to stare at Mike who was currently spread out on Harvey's couch, pens and papers littered around him like a blanket. He has a thin file in his hands but he's not looking at it.

"Where'd you find that?" Harvey asks, not angry - not yet - but more confused and slightly curious because he doesn't remember leaving that out for the world to see. (Not that he was hiding it.)

"It was at the bottom of the pile," Mike says, indicating to a large stack of manila folders in front of him but Harvey doesn't quite believe him. He thinks about calling him out on it but it really wouldn't be worth it. A stern look is just as effective and Mike gets it. "I wasn't snooping." Which is as close as Harvey's going to get to a real answer, but it's okay. "There's not a lot in here."

"We don't see him very often," Harvey pauses and then corrects himself: "Or at all. Not recently, at least."

Mike furrows his eyebrows. "What does he do?"

"No idea."

"What'd he get put on trial for?"

"Nothing. He's got us on retainer. Got _me_ on retainer. Just in case he screws up, is what he told me. Not sure the guy's completely all there," Harvey gestures to his head, "Hardly ever leaves his house. He's only been here a handful of times. Mostly it's phone calls."

"Weird," Mike mutters, looking back down at the pages, flipping through them like maybe more information would appear because he was too nosy to let this one go and Harvey wasn't doing much to help.

"No kidding," Harvey says, going back to work, "If the guy hadn't specially requested me, I'd have tried to pawn him off on to Louis. They'd be perfect for each other." He smiles, just a little, when he hears Mike laugh.

\- -

When Harvey comes back from lunch a week later, absent-mindedly adjusting his sleeves, he's about to sit down and fix any potentially stupid mistakes Mike might have tripped over (he doubts that they're even there but he has to check because he's not a guy that's all about trust and he'd hate to wind up with egg on his face because he trusted Mike too much to get the job done right. The kid may be smart as hell but he's still young and, for Harvey, young most definitely equals stupid) when Donna barges in, pushing a piece of yellow paper into his chest and then letting long fingers rest on her hips. She sighs.

"William Stokes called while you were out. He said he wants to stop by before the end of the week." There's something in her voice like she'd just spoken to an anthropomorphic snake for longer than she wanted to.

"Did he say why?"

"He did not. All he said after that is he'd like it if you'd call him to let him know when would be a good time for him to show up. Apparently he's too polite to drop by unannounced." She turns to go back towards her desk and then spins on her heels, just enough to stare directly at Harvey. "I don't like him," she says pointedly and Harvey exhales heavily.

"Welcome to the club."

\- -

Harvey waits until Thursday to pick up the phone, finger hovering over the numbers, pushing them like any second they might explode. Harvey has prided himself on being unshakable, unbending to stress or pressure. On being that guy who could stand up to a three-hundred pound, angry man who got himself into a crap load of trouble and then turn around and take care of the scared young woman who's about to face the guy who assaulted her. Nerves of steel, people have said, and Harvey never disagreed. But then William - Bill, as he insisted on being called - Stokes showed up in his life and, for the first time, Harvey found himself shaken.

He couldn't reach out and touch the reason why; maybe it was his dark black eyes or the way he smiled like he was trying to hide bottled up rage or how he always seemed to take up the smallest amount of space in a room but still make it feel like he was everywhere.

The phone doesn't pick up until the final ring and when William answers he sounds momentarily out of breath and if Harvey was anyone else, he probably wouldn't have noticed.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Specter." William speaks softly, calmly, a slight Southern drawl spreading like hot oil down inside a pan and it makes Harvey's skin prickle.

"Mr. Stokes," Harvey says, swallowing. He thinks he hears a noise (a scream?) in the background on William's end but he dismisses it as a television. What else was a guy who hardly ever ventures out into the wide world supposed to do?

"Bill, please," William urges with a chuckle, "None of this 'Mr. Stokes' nonsense. You took so long to respond I was worried you hadn't gotten my message." Harvey wonders how something said so innocently could sound so laced with spite. He's probably just imagining things, just trying to add gasoline to a spark because he hates how William puts him on edge and he's looking for excuses as to why.

"It's been a busy week," Harvey lies, sliding on a false grin at the end of sentence like William was in the room, "But I've got some time open in an hour. If you think you can be here." There's a lengthy pause and Harvey hopes it's William about to inform him that no, he can't be there, it'll have to wait until the twelfth of never but, instead, Harvey hears the sound of something heavy being lowered onto a table and the squeak of a faucet, water rushing into a metal sink.

"Sure," William says cheerfully, "I can be there in an hour." He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Harvey feels like he needs a shower.

\- -

"I want to meet him."

Harvey's not sure why he even went down to Mike's cubicle, but here he was, hands crossed over his chest, weight leaning just a bit too heavily against the weak walls and Mike is staring wide-eyed up at him, pen tap, tap, tapping against his desk. Harvey bites the inside of his cheek.

"I don't know, Mike."

"Come on. I work for you. You work for him. If I stay here long enough, _I'll_ probably work for him." Harvey knows Mike probably rehearsed that a couple times since he found William's file, hoping that any day Harvey would come sauntering down to tell him that William was coming and hey, wouldn't you like to finally meet the weird guy that manages to chip at your boss' foundation?

"Fine," Harvey relents and Mike shoots up so fast that his chair hits the back wall with a thud loud enough for the guy in the next cubicle over to lift his head in frustration, "But I do all the talking."

"Of course."

"I mean it."

"Right."

"Mike," Harvey levels a finger in Mike's face. Mike gives him a Look.

"Harvey."

"Yeah. Okay. Come on. He'll be here in a few minutes."

\- -

William blows into Harvey's office like an autumn breeze that barely quivers the drying leaves on a tree and Donna waves him in without a word, without looking up from what she's doing and William just nods, hands in his pockets and he pushes Harvey's glass door open with his shoulder. Harvey stands, buttoning his jacket and he straightens his back, lifting his chin just a bit and watches out of the corner of his eye as Mike tries to mimic him, minus the buttoning, and he uses his fingers resting on the arm of the couch to steady himself because he moved so fast his feet had trouble catching up. William barely gives Mike a glance at first, focusing everything on Harvey, pulling a hand out of the pocket of his jeans, extending his arm outwards, waiting for Harvey to settle his hand inside William's. The handshake is brief but strong and Harvey can't help but notice how cold William's hands are (he forgets how young William is (if thirty-three counts as young anymore now that Mike is around) and it always provides a bit of a jolt when they meet in person. Most of the clients that keep Harvey on retainer are CEOs who are closer to sixty than fifty so to have a guy who looks kind of like he's just stepped off a farm somewhere in Alabama walk in through his doors is kind of odd, to say the least).

"Who's this," William says and Harvey immediately doesn't like how the words come falling out of his mouth - slow and intrigued - and Harvey almost finds himself stepping in front of Mike and telling William he's 'nobody important' but that would be equal parts unprofessional and out of character and Harvey is neither of those things (not if he can help it anyway). Harvey opens his mouth but Mike is already speaking, his face unreadable but definitely leaning towards amazement, most likely over the fact that he's finally face-to-face with a guy who isn't gray or stiff or balding.

"Mike Ross," and Mike doesn't offer more than that when he accepts William's hand and the gesture lasts just a bit too long, William's fingers lingering on Mike's wrist, a light touch that Mike gently acknowledges with a flicker of his eyes but remains silent about.

"Bill Stokes," William says with a toothy grin, "It's good to meet you, Mike Ross."

Mike returns a smile to William and then directs it towards Harvey as if to say: 'I don't know what your problem is, this guy seems pretty okay to me'. Harvey frowns.

"What can I do for you?" Harvey tries to bring William's attention back towards him, away from Mike because he's not a fan of the way William is blinking listlessly at the guy, the sides of his mouth curling ever so slightly and William responds ahead of his own movements, his gaze drifting haltingly back towards Harvey as if he had been hypnotized and Harvey had just snapped his fingers.

"Nothing special," William says and then admits: "Had a bit of a…" he stalls on the word, " _mishap_ today. Pretty sure I managed to take care of it but I can never be too careful. Just stopped by to make sure we're still in order."

"Order?"

"You know. I'd hate to get the men in blue knocking on my door and then find out you're not my lawyer anymore. That would just be a disaster."

"Yes, it would," Harvey agrees monotonously. Mike's watching the conversation like he's at a tennis match or enjoying a nature program about combating male wolves. "We're fine."

"Good. That's good." They stand in a silence that seems to drag on for months and it's beginning to feel like years until William clears his throat and takes a few steps backwards. "I suppose I'll be heading out. Don't want to keep you."

"Yeah." Harvey thinks about tacking on an 'it was good to see you' but there are only so many lies he feels like he can get away with with this guy so he holds it back and just gives him a raised eyebrow and tilt of his head. He and Mike watch him leave and then less than a minute later, Mike is saying something about going back to work and, within seconds, Harvey is by himself. He sits and puts his face in his hands, his body shuddering as he releases all the built up tension.

\- -

Mike doesn't mean to catch up to William in the hallway by the elevator but he does and he can't say he's disappointed. It's been awhile since he's been around someone who didn't look like they could be his grandfather (except for Harvey of course but that guy was, well, different. Harvey wasn't really the kind of friendship - kinship - material Mike didn't know he was aching for). At first, neither of them speak but the elevator's taking too long to reach their floor and Mike can't see a reason _not_ to talk to the guy so he turns his head and says:

"Hey." It sounds silly in his head and even sillier as it fills the space between them but William smiles and Mike is suddenly reminded of the Grinch but the thought barely lasts a second and any residual emotion from this realization is brushed off onto the shiny, tiled floor.

"Mike Ross," William says like he's trying to coax a flower to open in the middle of the night. Mike feels his ears go red and warm and the embarrassment from it just makes them hotter. William licks his lips. "What do you do for Harvey?"

"I'm, uh… an associate," he pauses when the elevator dings, the door pulling effortlessly open and the two of them step into it, alone, "It's mostly a lot of paperwork."

"Sounds like a roller-coaster ride of a time," William says, watching the numbers count down and then lowering his head to face Mike to see his reaction. Mike laughs because, yeah, it's the time of his life, running around like a chicken with no head, filling in papers, highlighting and reading more in one day than he has in a month. He says this to William, exactly like that and William laughs, too, and shakes his head just as the elevator lurches to a stop on Mike's floor. William grabs Mike's arm just as he's getting off and yanks him back, spinning him around and Mike is startled by the aggression but by the time he can concentrate on William's face the guy looks nothing but friendly and open like he doesn't know what he did. "You should come over to my place. For dinner," he clarifies.

"Really?" The doors start to close but William puts a hand out and pushes them back.

"Sure. I don't get to meet too many guys my age in my work," William says, pushing the doors back again, a bit harder like they were doing this on purpose just to piss him off.

"What do you do?" Mike shifts on his feet, William's hand radiating against his arm.

"I'm…" William licks his lips, "Why don't you come over. Friday." Mike's finally starting to get why Harvey finds this guy more than a little strange and, really, Mike isn't big on surprises but, on the other hand, it's been awhile since he and Trevor parted ways and finding someone who doesn't work in the same building as him to have a beer or two with is like trying to open a sealed up pistachio: not worth the trouble.

"Yeah. Okay," Mike says, "I'll be there."

"Eight o'clock." William lets go and the doors close before Mike can realize that William never gave him an address.

\- -

Mike debates not telling Harvey but it slips out anyway when they're leaving for the night and Harvey briefly mentions plans for the weekend. Mike's so hopped up on the fact that he even _has_ plans at long last that it slips out and he's surprised when it's enough to make Harvey actually stop in his tracks and Mike has to double back.

"No," Harvey says and Mike has to resist letting his jaw drop so he clenches it instead.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean, no, you can't spend any time with him."

"Did you bump your head recently," Mike hears himself saying and he watches Harvey raise his eyebrows, "You can't tell me who I can be friends with." Mike hesitates. "The whole Trevor thing was a one time deal. That doesn't give you free reign to dictate my personal life."

"Yes, it does, actually," Harvey says. "We don't "hang out" with clients. He doesn't need me now, but he might someday and if the other side finds out that the two of you are best buds, we could get kicked off the case permanently. He put me on retainer for a reason. I'm a damn good lawyer because I don't get emotionally involved. We don't do this to have drinking buddies. You can find those on your own time. There's a fine line between having a drink to get to know a client and going to his house to drink beer and eat home cooking."

"If this was anybody else, you'd probably be bouncing on your toes because I'm schmoozing with a client. Your stupid rules have nothing to do with this. It's him. You just don't like _him_."

"You met the guy for _ten minutes_ ," Harvey's voice rises but he brings it back down when a woman passes by and stares at them curiously. He waits for her to leave before continuing, "I've known him for three years. There's something wrong with that guy and I don't want you around him."

"Harvey-"

"This discussion is over." Harvey pulls out his phone and starts checking his messages as if he needed to prove how serious he was that they were done. Mike doesn't say anything else and just walks away, angrily throwing the doors open and storming out onto the sidewalk and unlocking his bicycle.

Harvey would never admit it to Mike's face but yeah, Mike was right. If it had been any other guy, any other CEO or celebrity or big shot/big name/big wig, he'd be patting the kid on the back and encouraging him to sweep the man off his feet and charm his pants off if he has to (but charm them in as classy a way as possible and only if he wants to) but this isn't just some rich guy who likes the booze or women or both a little too much, this is William Stokes. William Stokes who rarely leaves his apartment, who only calls when he thinks he might have run into a problem but never calls back because somehow he's managed to fix it, who can afford to keep someone like Harvey on retainer, who speaks like butter could melt in his mouth, moves like he's silk in water, who, with one look, conveyed every single intention he has for Mike and who shook the unshakable Harvey Specter.

Everyone likes Mike the minute they meet him but never in the way that William so obviously likes him and Harvey finds the thought of this filling him with diluted anger and an itch of "mine mine mine" digging around in his head and the emotions frustrate him because it's _Mike_ he's feeling this way about and it's confusing as hell and more than a little worrisome.

But not quite as worrisome as the idea of Mike being completely alone with William.

\- -

Mike barely speaks to Harvey the next day and when Harvey questions it, Mike blames it on the fact that he's really busy and barely has five minutes to talk about something that isn't work but they both know that's not entirely the truth but just an easy and practical excuse to fall back on.

Harvey catches Mike as he's leaving forms on his desk a few minutes before eight in the evening and they share a silent conversation, fighting over who would say something first.

"You shouldn't go," Harvey says and Mike sighs.

"You know I will even if I promise not to."

"I know. I figured I'd get that out in the air so it'll be easier for me to say 'I told you so' later." It's enough to get the smallest of smirks from Mike but he tosses it away like he remembers he's supposed to be mad at Harvey and he pulls his jacket on and fixes his tie, running his fingers through his brown hair to make it presentable enough for dinner. "You look like you slept in those clothes."

"I did."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Bring him some wine," Harvey suggests because, by this point, he's given up trying to hold Mike back from making this stupid decision so he might as well keep the kid from fucking it up by making a terrible impression. Mike takes out his wallet and wrinkles his nose.

"I've only got twenty bucks. And I'm already late."

"You're killing me, Mike. You really are. Here's some extra money," Harvey forces the bills into Mike's hand even though it's obvious he doesn't want it, "Take a cab, then. You can at least do him the favor of not showing up with your pants tucked into your socks and you covered in sweat."

"Fine," Mike shrugs and then heads for the door, giving Harvey a half salute, "I'll try not to get murdered."

Harvey wants to laugh but he can't.

\- -

Finding William's address in his files had been like playing Where's Waldo if Waldo was actually a needle in a haystack but, eventually, Mike had discovered it, buried on the final page as if added as an after-thought and he had scribbled it down on a post-it which he now clutched tightly in his fist as he stood on the sidewalk in front of a rather normal looking apartment building. Nobody stood at the door but there's a rather large man behind a desk in the lobby and he eyes Mike suspiciously as he approaches the dark marble counter-top.

"I'm here to see William. William Stokes," he clarifies and something changes in the man's expression when he hears the name but Mike can't put his finger on what it is.

"Top floor of the building," the man says, nodding towards the elevator. He looks like he wants to wish Mike luck or offer him a prayer and Mike thanks him awkwardly and makes his way to the large, metal doors.

\- -

The elevator opens directly into William's apartment which seemingly takes up the entire floor and Mike steps onto the white tile and just stands there, taking it all in, only vaguely wondering if William even knows he's there yet. There's the sounds of falling pans and cutlery and cursing from the kitchen and a head is suddenly peeking around a cabinet. William grins and drops whatever he was gripping onto, throwing a checkered towel he'd been wiping his hands on over his shoulder and steps out to greet his guest. He's dressed as if he, like Mike, had just gotten home from work (although, if Mike believed everything Harvey told him, he wasn't sure _why_ William would be if he hardly ever made his way outside) but his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and the first few buttons on his shirt are hastily undone. Mike unconsciously pulls on his own tie, loosening it and smiling back as William touches Mike's arm in a quiet greeting before saying:

"You're late."

"Harvey," Mike says, "He didn't want me to come." He doesn't know why he tells William this but he does and he observes as the man processes the words before narrowing his eyes and saying quietly, as if speaking to himself:

"Is that so. Well," he says, his mood shifting, and he slaps Mike on the shoulder and chuckles, "You're here. Nothing Harvey can do about it now. Come on in. Drop your bag, take off your coat." He's ushering Mike towards the kitchen, maneuvering him away from the living room and Mike pulls his bag over his head, laying it down on the floor, resting it against the couch and William takes Mike's jacket from his hands and disappears through the dining room into a darker lit part of the apartment and Mike thinks about asking him where he put it when William returns but he figures it doesn't matter because he's not planning on making a run for it any time soon. "Red or white?"

"Hm?" Mike snaps back into reality to see William holding two bottles of wine.

"Red," William lifts one bottle, "or white," he says as he lifts the other.

"White. I guess." If there was one thing Mike wasn't (and there were a lot of things these days that Mike wasn't anymore) it was someone who drank wine. Sure, he had a glass here and there but never enough to know what he liked but enough to know that red made him gag a bit and white just a bit less.

"Here," William says, handing Mike a wooden spoon and pointing towards a pot bubbling with a red sauce, "Stir that." He walks off towards a cabinet at the far end of the kitchen before Mike has a chance to say anything so Mike plunges the spoon in and begins to do what he was ordered, listening as a cork pops free from a bottle and hearing liquid fall into glasses and William picks them up and returns, holding on to one and lowering the other on to the marble counter next to Mike's elbow. "You can stop," William says and Mike uncurls his fingers from around the spoon and picks up his glass, tilting it forward to clink against William's when he offers it out. "To an evening we won't forget."

"Sure," Mike says, taking a big sip of his drink and holding back the wince as he swallows it, "Sounds good."

\- -

Mike starts to feel kind of fuzzy, his head heavy and foggy, limbs cumbersome, sometime around the end of dinner as they sit in the dining room and Mike is just barely aware that William is watching him intently, silently. Mike blames it on the alcohol (he's only had two glasses), on being tired from work (he's worked harder before and been wide awake), on anything but what it feels like and he tries to act normal, to ignore it, to put more pasta on his fork and then in his mouth but it's impossible to lift his arm and the fork winds up clattering against his plate.

"What…" He attempts to speak but the words are lost in the mud his brain has suddenly become. He goes to stand up because if he can _just_ make it to the door, to the elevator, he'd be home free but he hardly lasts three seconds on his legs and he's falling and falling fast. Arms wrap around his waist and help ease him down and soon, they're both on the floor, Mike's body leaning wearily against William's, his head against his shoulder and he _can't move_. He doesn't want to fall asleep, he _can't_ fall asleep (of course, he thinks, of _course_ Harvey was right) but William is stroking his hair, fingertips running slowly across his scalp, moving soothingly down his back. Mike tries to move again but William holds him down, a hand sliding around his hip, pulling him back.

"Shh," Mike can feel William's mouth next to his ear, "Shh. Just close your eyes," William says, "Don't fight me."

He does anyway, just for a little while, when he still can, but it doesn't last because _shit_ he's tired and William is doing everything right to calm his racing heart even though he definitely doesn't want him to and a few minutes that drag on for what might of been hours later, Mike is finally falling asleep.

\- -

When Mike wakes up, he tries to rub his hands over his face, to clear his eyes, but he can't move his arms and it takes a few tugs and futile struggles to realize that he's been tied up, shoulders pulled roughly and uncomfortably behind him, resting against the back of a straight-backed, wooden chair. His feet are free but the drugs make it impossible to move them and the inside of his mouth feels thick and tastes bitter. He is otherwise rather pristine and untouched and Mike wonders if how long he's been there, chin touching his chest, fingers going numb from his restraints.

There's a noise behind him like furniture being moved around and Mike tries to turn but can only swivel his neck a few inches and, suddenly, a hand is grasping the back of his chair and he's being dragged towards the living room and flung (as much as someone _can_ fling a heavy chair with a man settled in it) into the center, the coffee table and couch pushed off to the sides to leave a wide open space, a single light shining from the corner, enough to illuminate Mike and nothing else and Mike swallows, squinting, trying to sort himself out but he's not given much of a chance when a hand appears from the dark and makes it's way around his neck.

Mike makes a noise that he didn't even know a human could produce and his eyes water from the pressure but as quickly as it appeared it's gone and Mike coughs, shaking his head because if he could _just clear it_ maybe he could figure a way out or where he is or why William is doing this or why Harvey is always right and why Mike never bothers to listen. His mind is panicking, throwing out random facts that he has to swallow back to keep from spouting out and none of them are helping but he can't do anything else. Nothing he's read or watched has readied him for this, for being knocked off his feet by a crazy person, for being drugged and tied to a chair. He hears laughter and William solidifies from the pitch black that surrounds them and he's grinning just like he was when they first met yesterday and Mike feels cold, like he's already died.

"Well, well. Look who's awake," William says, like he hadn't tried choking Mike moments before, like he had only just arrived and Mike thinks for a horrifying moment that maybe there's someone else but William's snapping his fingers in Mike's face and the thought goes away to the sound of fingers clicking together. "Mike Ross." He pauses. "Michael. You know, you took awhile to fall asleep. Not your first time?" He acts like he's waiting for Mike to answer. "Hm. What should I do with you?" William evaporates again, returning with a kitchen knife almost the length of his forearm and his grin widens with Mike's eyes. "You're just too easy. Don't worry. This is for later. I have something better planned for now," William chuckles, skimming his fingers through a pair of brass knuckles and Mike flinches, his breath catching in his chest and he attempts to break free from his confinement because he could fight back, if only he had his hands. "You're pathetic," William spits, assuming Mike's struggle to break free is an attempt to run, "At least the last guy wasn't such a coward."

The impact is unbearable and Mike's reaction to the pain is delayed. He bends forward as best he can, red and black exploding across his vision, white glow framing the edges and he feels - and tastes - warm blood bubble past his lips. He barely has time to recover when the next hit lands two inches away from the first blow and it's worse, so much worse and the blood splatters over the floor, over his shoes and he feels like his insides have crumbled, folded in on themselves, pink muscle and bone crunching into crumbs like stale bread even though he knows it's impossible. His head's being pulled backwards by his hair, neck bent over the top of the chair and his eyes move wildly around, searching for the next attack but, instead, he gets a hand resting on his chin, thumb trailing across his lips, wiping the blood away and William moves around in front of Mike without letting go and he's practically lowering himself in Mike's lap.

"Too much?" He asks it teasingly and Mike mutters something but even _he's_ not sure what he just said. It doesn't matter because William laughs like he knows and uses his free hand - the hand with the brass knuckles - to grip Mike's chin strong enough to bruise. "It gets worse. For you. Not for me. Things can only go uphill from now on for me."

"Harvey knows," Mike breathes, each intake sounding wet and labored and he talks through the fingers pushing into his cheeks, "I'm here."

"Yeah, well," William sounds entirely unfazed, which isn't what Mike is aiming for, "That's alright." He inspects Mike for a moment before leaning in, lips brushing against his jaw, up towards his ear and Mike can feel teeth against his skin and it sends goosebumps prickling down his arms. "Mhm." He pulls back, drops Mike's head to wind his fingers into Mike's white shirt and sit down on his thighs. "He'll have to find your body to prove anything. And if he does… it'll be awhile," William whispers, "until he finds all the pieces." Mike goes numb when he hears this and they stare at each other but Mike's not really seeing anything other than his possible future of body parts in bags if he can't find a way out of here. "Don't worry. That's a long way off. We've got so much to do before then."

But William isn't getting up and he's hanging on to Mike just a little bit tighter like he knows something Mike doesn't.

"What…"

"Shh," and William is pulling the knife out from thin air, like he conjured it from somewhere inside of himself and he pushes the sharp end hard enough against Mike's neck to leave a mark but not draw blood and he's moving the cold steel over Mike's face, pressing the thin point against Mike's mouth and Mike closes his eyes. "I don't know where to start. Oh," William says as he moves his arm down, voice lifting with mock surprise as he plunges the knife slowly into Mike's torso, "My hand slipped." He pushes it in deeper and it's pure, concentrated agony and Mike can taste blood again, feel it coating the inside of his mouth and he keeps his eyes shut but he can still hear the sounds William is making as he keeps pushing until Mike is positive the blade is more than halfway inside of him and then William yanks it out, holding it in front of Mike head, slapping him to focus him and make him look. "That's yours. Nothing to say," William inquires after a lengthy pause. "Shame. You know, Mike Ross, you're boring me. You may be cute but you've got no conversational skills. I mean, look at you. One measly knife wound and you're already passing out on me." Mike can hear him but every word William says sounds like he's got his head in a fishbowl and Mike wheezes in reply because every piece of his expansive vocabulary has jumped ship. "Like I said," William says, standing, "Boring."

"Why…"

"Oh, don't start. 'Why are you doing this?'," William says, ridiculing what others have probably asked him before, "Don't be one of those guys, Mike Ross. I hope you're smarter than that. …It's too quiet in here," William says suddenly, "I don't like to do this without music." He disappears and, suddenly, there's this heavy bass, loud enough to shake the floor and Mike can feel it in his teeth. "That's better," William shouts as he turns up the volume and Mike idly wonders why the neighbors have never complained (and then he wonders if they're even still alive). "You look like you're in pain." Mike gives him - as best as he can, considering everything looks blurry and he's pretty sure he's closer to dying than being alive - a 'you're kidding, right?' look and William laughs. "Good."

He's walking over and, in one smooth motion, is undoing Mike's tie, sliding it off of his neck and draping it around his own, mostly for convenience sake. "Nice tie. Did Harvey pick this out for you?" He's moving on to Mike's buttons next and Mike twists once or twice, as many times as his body will let him and William rolls his eyes. "I need to see what damage I did. I can't do that with your clothes on. Don't panic. I'm not going to take off anything else. Yet." Mike chokes on spit and blood and William finds this hilarious. "I'm kidding. Probably." He can't take anything off without untying Mike's wrists so, after letting the shirt hang open, he lifts the undershirt up to Mike's chest and exhales slowly. "Look at what I did. Nice and clean." He taps the skin around the wound as if an artist admiring a brush stroke and Mike dry heaves. "Careful now, easy," and William's being oddly gentle, fixing Mike's clothes, reaching blindly behind himself and producing a garbage can for Mike to empty whatever is left in his stomach into and Mike finishes off with blood and just rests there, limp and panting and William is rubbing his back like they had too much to drink and Mike just wasn't good at holding his liquor. "Finished? Okay." William's on his feet again, fingers back in Mike's hair and he punches Mike across the face with his metal knuckles and, yeah, Mike thinks, his nose is definitely broken. "This isn't doing anything for me. Is it working for you? …Yeah," William sounds disappointed, "Didn't think so. Well, we're gonna have to do something about that then, aren't we? I could… nah. Been there, done that. It lost it's novelty after the second time." Mike is obliged William doesn't finish that thought because he really does _not_ want to know what he had in mind but it probably couldn't have been any worse than what William actually says, which is: "Maybe I should cut something off now, while you're still alive. I haven't done that before. I mean, I usually wait until I've finished before I start hacking at things but this… this could be a new thing. What do you think? ...Oh. That's right. You don't get to have an opinion. Although, to be fair, I will ask you: what should we lose? A finger? A whole hand? The arm? I don't want to touch your face though. It's so pretty. I wouldn't want to ruin it. More than I already have, anyway."

"Please," Mike tries but he can't get the rest of it out.

"Please what? Please start? I can do that." William's lowering himself back on to Mike's lap and he puts his finger to his lips as he thinks. "Decisions, decisions. If I do this," William takes the bloody knife, pushing himself closer against Mike, eyes not moving from his face, and he cuts through the restraints, grabbing onto one of Mike's wrists and pulling it between them, "You won't do anything stupid, will you? Because, if you do, I won't _hesitate_ to use this to slice your neck. Or to cut those spots on your ankles so you can't run away. Actually. That's a good idea."

'No!" Mike pleads with all the power he can summon, which really isn't much at all, but it's enough to make William pause in his decent and lift himself back up into his sitting position and he adjusts himself on Mike's legs.

"No? So you won't run?"

"I won't," Mike answers weakly.

"Okay then. Now, what do you think? I'm leaning towards the whole hand. It'll take awhile, but it'll be worth it in the end."

\- -

It's 11pm and Harvey is sitting alone in his apartment, finishing off his third drink as he swivels slightly back and forth on one of the stools that's seated around his kitchen island. For the third time that evening, he finds himself thinking about Mike and, more specially, why he didn't try harder to keep him from going anywhere with William.

Despite how it seemed, there was a surprising number of people Harvey trusted and, even with the ones that he didn't - like clients - he managed to find a way to make it work. But, with William, there was some kind of transparent wall between them, like William had created a poisonous bubble around himself that one touch would cause death for whomever dared to pop it. Harvey, justifiably, didn't much care for people like that, though he had met very few of them in the past. William was the worst.

"I shouldn't…" Harvey says to himself, chewing on the end of a stray pen like he does when he's conflicted or frustrated or a little bit of both. "He's fine," he tells himself, turning back and forth in his seat. "He's fine." He tells himself this a few more times (five, if he's counting, which he isn't), repeated out loud and in his head and he stares out of his windows, watching everything but not really looking. "He's fine," he says for the sixth time, standing up and grabbing his coat.

He just has to make sure.

\- -

The room smells like sweat and blood and Mike doesn't even want to _name_ what else and he's just waking up from being passed out by getting slapped across the face. Somehow, in his pain haze, he had managed to convince William that just a finger would be the best choice (but maybe William's reasoning why doesn't exactly match up with Mike's) and then Mike had to endure the seizing terror and agony of having his index finger removed with the same blunt knife that had been shoved into his stomach minutes before. He tried to watch; he felt like he needed to see it because the last thing he wanted to be labeled as was a victim or a coward (again) and he bit back any kind of noise because he wouldn't give William the satisfaction but then William got closer and closer to the bone and Mike couldn't look, could feel the bile rise in his throat and he wasn't aware that he'd been screaming bloody murder for the past few minutes, the only thing drowning it out being the music that's still blasting from William's speakers.

The bone was the worst part. Mike didn't feel much anymore and his eyes were closed so he thought that maybe it was over but then something heavy and metal gripped around what was left of his finger and he sucked in a breath but that couldn't even _possibly_ mentally or physically prepare him for this and with one deafening crack, Mike howled because that was the worst pain he had ever felt in his entire life and in seconds he was out, unconscious.

And now, here he is, his captor's hand whacking him across the face because Mike may be done but William definitely isn't. Mike's not entirely sure how much more of this he can be brave for, especially after the show he just put on. His hands have been re-tied behind his back, against the chair, the only difference is the unbearable twinge that's shooting up his arm and his palms feel wet but that's probably from the bloody stump that used to house a finger. (The thought has acid climbing in his throat but he's not sure what else he could throw up since everything he's eaten for the past few days already made it's way into the trash can that William so helpfully offered).

"I'll say this," William says, using his forearm to wipe sweat from his head and face and he sniffs, rolling his shoulders, "You're hanging in there. I may have misjudged you, Mike Ross. You're still a coward. But you're a fucking resilient one." If he still had the ability to coherently form sentences, let alone single words, Mike would probably know how to sarcastically respond but, for now, all he can do is try to force half a smile. William returns it like they're sharing a moment, like this is all some big joke they're both a part of but it disappears when, through a break in the music, there's the distinct sound of a phone ringing. "Who the hell…" William mumbles and slinks off into the dark, the music stopping abruptly and Mike can only hear part of the conversation. "Of course you can come over," William says with entirely false cheerfulness, "Well, he's not here anymore. But sure, we can talk. I'm just cleaning up." The discussion lasts a couple minutes more and the music isn't back but William is and he's rolling his eyes like everything is totally _fucked_ now. "Guess who that was?" William doesn't wait for Mike to attempt to respond. "Your boyfriend, Harvey." Mike lifts his head, his eyes growing large. "Yeah. Apparently he wants to talk. And he can't do it over the phone. I know what you're thinking: He'll be here in a few minutes and here you are, an absolute mess in my living room. It's okay. I've hit this roadblock before."

The next couple of minutes is a gag over his mouth and bag over his head and being dragged across a tile floor and a door slamming and locking all he's left with is pitch black, the smell of moth balls and the sounds of his heart and heavy breathing slowing down.

He feels like he's dying.

\- -

Harvey arrives less than twenty minutes after making the call and he's surprised by how quickly and efficiently he's buzzed up, the ride in the elevator sending sparks up and down his spine, his fingers curled into fists in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. The metal doors slide easily and noiselessly open and he finds himself in an impeccable apartment, spread out and brightly lit, untouched as if not even William lived there. He thinks about calling out, about making his presence known, but then William is appearing from inside the kitchen, wiping his hands off on a towel that he throws towards a large sink and an unnerving grin spreads across his face.

"Mr. Specter," William starts but pauses, holding up a finger, "Harvey. It's almost midnight. What couldn't wait for a phone call in the morning?"

"You're the one who said I could come over," Harvey reminds him, busying his hands by pushing imaginary wrinkles from his jacket and tie. He's slightly bewildered, actually, that a man so opposed to a face-to-face meeting would be so accepting of being asked for one on such short notice but Harvey supposed the fact that it was being done on home turf was a bit of a comfort. "It's about Mike," Harvey says and William doesn't even flinch (not that Harvey (completely) expected him to but he does find it creepily odd that William's only reaction to these three words are to take a couple steps closer to the living room).

"Mike? Mike Ross. What about him?"

"It's about you. And him. And how you shouldn't be friends." Harvey stands a bit taller because he's confident in this, he knows what he's doing and, sure, he also knows how this sounds but Mike is _his_ (responsibility/associate/child/friend/everything) and he doesn't want to deal with consequences of not really paying attention anymore. William frowns (finally) and stiffens.

"Oh, really? And how's that?"

"Because you're a client," Harvey lies, somewhat, "You could lose us both as your lawyers if-"

"You and I," William says, interrupting, "both know that you don't mean a single word you're using as an excuse right now. You don't want us to be friends because you want him all for yourself. Because you need him. Because you," William is walking slowly towards Harvey and Harvey is holding his ground, "don't trust me."

"Maybe I don't. That's not the point."

"Not the point? No, actually, I think that has _everything_ to do with it. You don't trust me, so, therefore, you don't trust me with Mike. What do you think I'm going to do? Tarnish his innocent sensibilities?" William laughs and Harvey can feel his breath on his face.

"He's not answering his phone," Harvey says calmly. (He had tried calling Mike three times during the ride over and all three times he got the kid's voicemail but never actually left a message because the last thing he wanted was to have to listen to a "you _do_ care" speech from Mike in the morning).

"I sent him off in a cab an hour ago. Unharmed. Unless you consider him being loopy drunk as being harmed. He's probably passed out in bed by now."

"Right." Harvey didn't want to believe it but, shit, it sounded plausible. Still, though. "This was the last time." William sighs and licks his bottom lip.

"Fine. But when Mike complains, don't go blaming me." He gestures towards the elevator like, yeah, discussion over and Harvey is all too happy to yield because the sooner he leaves the better but then, as he's turning around, something black catches his eye and there, propped up against the flawlessly white couch is a bag that looks a hell of a lot like Mike's.

"That's Mike's," Harvey points out stupidly and William spins around so fast Harvey thinks he might have gotten whiplash and then he's looking back at Harvey and the smile that twists up across his face is nothing short of vicious.

"So it is. He must have left it."

But Harvey knows. He knows. Even drunk, Mike wouldn't leave anywhere without his bag.

Something isn't right.

"Where is he?" Harvey asks coolly and William raises an eyebrow.

"I told you. I sent him off in a cab. He's home, sleeping it off." Harvey has a million questions, questions a lawyer would ask ("How'd you know what to tell the cab driver when he asked where he was going?", "What was the cab number?", "If Mike was too drunk to bike home, why didn't you drive him back to his place yourself? Why a cab at all?") but all he can say is:

"I don't believe you."

"Well, that's unfortunate," William says, like his supposed honesty isn't currently being questioned, "because I'm telling the truth. Apparently, you're too jealous to think clearly. Should I repeat myself one more time?" Harvey punches William straight in the mouth and then grasps him by the collar, hauling him to his feet and he grimaces when the reaction he gets is laughter. William spits blood onto the floor and grins with red teeth and lips and just laughs and Harvey lets him go and backs away because what the _fuck_ is going on. "You're lucky I don't like you, Harvey Specter," William says, wiping his mouth off.

"Why's that?"

"Because you'd hate to see what I would do you if I did," William doesn't give Harvey a chance to reply and points, once again, towards the doors, "Get out of my apartment. Unless, of course, you want me to call the boys in blue and tell them you assaulted me. And here," he throws Mike's bag at Harvey, who catches it and holds it close to his chest, "take this with you. You can give it to your precious boy-toy when you see him tomorrow."

Harvey isn't sure why and it's against every cell that jitters in his skin, but he leaves.

\- -

A door clicks open, footsteps creak and the bag flies off his head and William is squatting down in front of Mike, an arm horizontal on Mike's thigh and William's chin resting on the limb like a pillow.

"Oh, Mike. You're a mess. It's nice to see you awake, though. Means we can have a bit of a chat. Or, well. Not quite. I think I'll keep that gag on. It suits you." William exhales and yawns. "Excuse me," he apologizes, "It's been a long night. I don't usually have to entertain my guests before I… you know. Anyway. That was Harvey. He told me we have to stop being friends. Can you believe him? Such an asshole. I almost got him out of here but then he found your bag and, man, don't I feel stupid. Turns out, though, Harvey's got a bit of a secret temper. Punched me square in the mouth. He's gone now. He thinks he's going to see you tomorrow." William snorts and Mike can feel it vibrate up his leg. "I guess he isn't as smart as we thought he was."

Harvey wouldn't. He wouldn't… he _couldn't_ just walk away. It's impossible. Harvey doesn't punch someone and then turn tail and run, Mike knew that about him without even being put in the middle of a situation where Harvey had to use physical force to make a point but there he was, confronting the one man he didn't trust with Mike's life, going right back out the way he came, holding the last shred of evidence that Mike was even in the apartment long past when he was supposed to be asleep in his own bed.

"Well," William stands, slapping his hands and rubbing them together, "I'd love to keep this up because, goodness knows, you're worth keeping alive for a couple more days but I just don't have time. Especially since Harvey is sniffing around my heels now." Mike tries to talk around the fabric pulled over his mouth but all that comes out is muffled gibberish so he struggles instead but the residual pain from his hand and his knife wound immobilizes him and William just shakes his head. "You just don't give up, do you? Hm. It seems like such a shame. We could have had the best time. You can blame Harvey for that. The guy might as well have killed you himself. Now, there are a few ways we could do this and I'm going to let you choose. But I won't take the gag off until you've heard all your options because I _can't stand_ being interrupted. Okay? Option A: I can suffocate you. It's the slowest but it's my favorite. Keep that in mind. Option B: I stab you to death. Messy. But also fun. Not as fun as Option A though. Option C: I shoot you in the head. Quick. Clean. But dull as all get out." William's undoing the gag and stepping backwards again, giving Mike the go-ahead to decide. "You have to choose."

"No."

"No. No? What do you think's going to happen? You say no and I shrug and let you go home? I'm letting you choose because it's fair. But if you don't care about fairness - and, really, why would you - then I can just as easily pick one. You know, I'm surprised you haven't tried to make a deal with me. That's what lawyers do, right? Make deals. You wouldn't be working for Harvey if you didn't know what you were doing."

"I…" Mike wants to speak, wants to tell him everything on his mind, _wants_ to strike up any deal William is willing to make but he's too out of it, too numb, too weak to sort through the ideas in his head and string them together rationally. "Screw you."

"I wish. But it's too late for that."

"Harvey'll know I'm missing," Mike isn't sure how he's making himself do this, how he's pushing the words out and he can barely hear himself like he's miles outside of his own body but he's going to die anyway so he might as well keep it going, "He'll know it was you."

"And it'll be his word against mine. Honestly, Mike. This isn't my first time at the rodeo. I'm seriously considering putting this gag back on you."

"You'll slip up eventually."

"Well. Maybe I'll just have to kill him next then. Now, please, if you aren't going to choose, I'm going to have to. Is that what you want?" Mike doesn't say anything. "Okay then. Option A it is. Wait there."

Mike puts forth one last valiant effort to escape while William is out of the room, ignoring the pain as he turns this way and that, lifting and fighting and pulling and thrashing, trying to working his wrists free from the ropes and he attempts to move his feet but William had realized his earlier mistake and tied them to the legs of the chair and Mike's just about to try and stand and maybe break the chair against a wall when William returns, a clear, plastic bag clutched in his hands. He thinks maybe William is going to offer him a chance for last words because he seems like that kind of guy and Mike is prepared to tell him off in the only way his drug and pain-addled brain can manage but, instead, William just walks up behind him and pauses, leaning down to whisper in his ear:

"I'll tell Harvey you said goodbye."

The plastic slips lazily over his head and Mike can't remember how to breathe.

\- -

Twenty-five minutes after leaving, Harvey's a mile away from his own apartment when he tells the driver to turn the cab around and go back. He never should have gone in the first place, he knows that.

 _He never should have gone_. What the hell was he thinking?

He shouldn't have left. He doesn't put his tail between his legs and skulk off into a corner. It's just not the way he was built. So why'd he do it now? He believed, had convinced himself, that William was telling the truth, that he had overreacted, that the way he felt about William, about Mike, was clouding his head and royally fucking him over.

He makes a quick stop at Mike's place, just to check, just to be safe, because maybe he's doing something stupid like letting his emotions get in the way of logic. He knocks six times, heavily, but nobody answers.

"Mike," he asks the night desk clerk when he goes, reluctantly, back down to the lobby because he hasn't earned the privilege of a spare key, (and he's grateful he managed to convince Mike to move in to a new place that even _had_ someone that sat at a desk twenty-four/seven), "The kid who lives in 25C. He's here, right?"

"That guy?" The woman shrugs. "Haven't seen him all night."

"…When'd you start your shift?" Harvey can feel his heart start to go faster, faster, faster and it pounds so loudly in his ears that he hardly hears the woman when she goes back to reading her magazine and off-handedly says with a shrug of a single shoulder:

"Seven o'clock."

Harvey feels dizzy and he looks down at the bag - _Mike's_ bag - clutched tightly in his fist and he loosens his grip, letting it collide with the tile floor.

He lets out a deep breath.

And he starts to run.


End file.
